Category: Stories

The Art of Rhetoric

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for gathering here today. I must say, it is most agreeable to see all of you here, sitting in your respective seats, as one does.

Now, as I stand here, I find myself compelled to speak at length on a topic of importance: office supply procurement procedures. Yes, today we shall dive into the depths of stapler requisition forms and the fascinating, nearly unbearable intricacies of paperclip ordering. I shall endeavour to explain to you, in as much detail as possible, how and why a process that could be simple has instead been made magnificently, astoundingly, breathtakingly complex.

Some of you might be wondering, “Why does it matter whether we have blue or black biros?” An excellent question. Indeed, a very good question indeed—I spent upwards of sixty-seven minutes this morning pondering the same. However, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to provide a definitive answer. Suffice it to say that both have their merits. Blue pens evoke a sense of calm, while black pens, on the other hand, suggest a certain authority. Either way, whether you’re taking notes on something important or simply doodling, rest assured, both options are available to you.

I would like to take a moment to address the recent changes in our paper supplier. As you may be aware, our usual brand of A4 printer paper was out of stock for three days last month, and we had to switch to an alternative. I know some of you felt the new paper was slightly thinner, slightly different, almost undetectably unlike the usual stock. This raised some eyebrows, and I want to acknowledge your concerns. I personally spent several hours comparing the old paper to the new, and I can confirm: yes, there is a barely perceptible difference. However, feedback from the Paper Committee remains inconclusive.

Now, let’s talk about the issue of folder categorisation. You see, after much consideration and an extensive review process, it has been decided that all folders will henceforth be filed according to the second letter of their labels, not the first. Yes, this decision was not made lightly. It required no fewer than seven meetings, and multiple subcommittees were formed. I won’t bore you with the finer points of the deliberation—although I could, if you wish—but the upshot is that we believe the new system will bring a semblance of mild, almost negligible, efficiency to our filing cabinets.

Moving on to another highlight: I am pleased to report that our new policy on tea bag usage has officially passed. We are now asking that everyone limit themselves to one teabag per two cups. This may seem revolutionary, even radical, but studies have shown that a single teabag can be reused. And for those of you who might wonder about milk ratios, please note that no more than 2.3 tablespoons of milk per cup is now advised, a decision that took the better part of last week to reach.

Please feel free to review the accompanying documents during this initial 4-hour presentation. There will be time for questions at the end.

I Wandered Worlds

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Last night, I wandered worlds within,
where logic twists and colours spin,
where seas are red and skies are white,
and trees wear leaves of shattered light.

I walked a shore of fallen glass,
each shard a memory from the past—
a flash of laughter, swift and bright,
a lover’s gaze that cut the night.

I climbed a hill that breathed like skin,
its peaks alive, its roots within,
and watched as houses turned to sand,
and clocks dripped hours from my hands.

The air was filled with whispers there,
words that drifted, light as prayer,
but try to catch them, and they’d fade,
like shadows cast in evening shade.

I saw myself—a stranger’s face,
an outline shifting out of place.
She stared at me with hollow eyes,
half-mad with dreams, half-wise with lies.

And through it all, a humming sound,
an ache, a pull, a tremble found—
as if the earth beneath my feet
was drawn to some unheard heartbeat.

In dreamscapes strange, I drift alone,
in fields where time and space are sown.
When morning pulls, I leave behind
a thousand worlds, just fragments, blind.

Yet as I wake, they cling like dew,
soft traces of a world I knew,
a place unseen by light of day,
where dreams and waking worlds decay.

Humanity, Season 1

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Astronomers at the Mount Huxley Observatory had been tracking an unusual radio signal for weeks—an anomaly amidst the usual static of deep space. Initially, they chalked it up to some cosmic background noise or the faint trace of a distant pulsar. But then, late one night, the signal changed, becoming too regular, too structured. It was a transmission. A series of strange bursts and frequencies that were too precise to be chance. After days of decoding, what they discovered sent ripples of confusion and excitement through the scientific community.

The signal was a message addressed specifically to a man named Kevin Marsh, a middle-aged accountant living in the quiet suburbs of Stockton-on-Tees.

“Dear Kevin,” the message read, once translated, “We’re huge fans of your work! The way you navigated that tense office argument with Janice last Thursday—brilliant! Such subtle emotional intelligence. Keep up the good work, and don’t worry about Craig, he’s totally going to get what’s coming to him!”

The astronomers were flummoxed. Who was this message from? How could it have travelled across the stars, and why was it so absurdly specific? Who in the universe cared about Kevin Marsh’s office squabbles?

The message was sent to Kevin, who, upon receiving it, reacted with bewilderment, then amusement, assuming it was an elaborate prank. But just as the buzz started to die down, more messages came through. And not just to Kevin—more transmissions arrived at the observatory, each one addressed to a different individual on Earth.

A single mother in Tokyo received an encouraging letter, praising her for her perseverance in raising two children while working long hours at a local market. “The way you handled Kaito’s tantrum yesterday was top-tier parenting!” it read. “We can’t wait to see how you manage the upcoming school interview. You’re a real star!”

A university student in Cape Town was congratulated on passing a difficult exam. “You really had us on the edge of our seats, Taviso!” the message said. “That last-minute essay? Genius. We were rooting for you the whole time!”

The precision of the details was uncanny. The letters referenced personal, intimate moments that couldn’t possibly be known to anyone outside those involved. As more messages arrived from the stars, the realisation slowly began to dawn on humanity: they were being watched from a distant star system, many light-years away from Earth. Some long-advanced civilisation had somehow tuned into Earth like a television broadcast. But not just the grand events—no, these extraterrestrials were obsessed with the mundane, everyday lives of people. To them, Earth was one giant soap opera.

Each day, thousands of new messages would arrive, filled with glowing reviews, emotional support, and the occasional critique.

“Dear Marissa,” one letter read to a barista in Sydney, “we think you’re great, but maybe don’t give up on your art career so quickly. That painting you’re working on? It’s going to be a masterpiece if you just stick with it. We’re really looking forward to the big reveal!”

The more the messages came in, the more Earth’s inhabitants started to perform, knowingly or unknowingly. Arguments were exaggerated, decisions became more dramatic, relationships were played out like intricate plotlines, and every mundane task was suddenly infused with the weight of unseen eyes judging, supporting, and critiquing.

The question “What will the aliens think?” became a driving force behind everything online. Social media platforms boomed with people posting updates specifically hoping for alien recognition and sponsorship.

And then came the awards. One morning, a particularly impressive message arrived at the Mount Huxley Observatory. It was addressed to all of humanity and bore the embedded signature of the “Galactic Viewership Council.” Inside, the message announced the First Annual Terra Drama Awards, celebrating the best moments from Earth’s “performances” over the past year.

A teenager from São Paulo had won the award for “Best Tearjerker” after a particularly emotional breakup. An elderly woman from Scotland won “Best Heroic Act” for saving her neighbour’s dog from a burning house. The biggest award, “Best Main Character,” went to a primary school teacher from India who had unwittingly captivated the alien audience with her everyday kindness and perseverance in the face of life’s challenges. Her acceptance speech, delivered live on social media, was simple: “I didn’t know anyone was watching, but I’m glad if what I did inspired someone.”

The messages kept coming, and with them, a growing sense that humanity’s role in the universe was something far stranger than they had ever imagined. They weren’t just explorers, inventors, or thinkers. They were characters, their lives unfolding in a cosmic drama watched by countless far away aliens.

And though they couldn’t see their audience, humanity now lived knowing that somewhere, out in the vastness of space, they had fans. Fans who rooted for them, laughed with them, and cried when they stumbled.

And the question remained: What would the next season bring?

The Therapist’s Therapist

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

INT. THERAPHIST’S OFFICE – DAY

THERAPIST: So, what would you like to talk about today?

PATIENT: Well, I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately. Work is just… stressful, and –

THERAPIST: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, overwhelmed, yes. Uh… tell me, does your boss send you passive-aggressive emails at 11 p.m., questioning every single decision you’ve ever made in your entire life? Hypothetically speaking.

PATIENT: Um… no, not really. My boss is fine, I guess. It’s more that –

THERAPIST: (sighing heavily) Must be nice. Anyway, sorry, go on. You were saying something about work?

PATIENT: Um… right. So, I’ve been feeling like I’m not good enough, you know? Like, no matter what I do, it’s never enough.

THERAPIST: (nodding vigorously) Oh, I get that. Totally get that. Like, the other day, I spent two hours trying to decide if I should buy a 24-pack or 48-pack of toilet paper. Two hours! Two hours! And in the end, I bought both because I couldn’t make a decision, and now my bathroom looks like a storage unit. What’s wrong with me?

PATIENT: I… don’t think that’s the same thing?

THERAPIST: (laughing nervously) Oh, right! Sorry, let’s focus on you. It’s just, you know… decisions are hard, and sometimes… sometimes you just have to remind yourself that it’s okay to be overwhelmed. You know, like when your entire life feels like it’s unravelling, and you’re constantly questioning if you made the right choices, and –

(suddenly stops and forces a smile)

Anyway, how does that make you feel?

PATIENT: Um… I’m starting to feel like maybe you’re the one who needs a therapist?

THERAPIST: (laughing awkwardly) Ha! Me? Oh, no, no, no. I’m fine! Totally fine. Just a little… stressed, that’s all. I mean, who wouldn’t be after what happened this morning, right?

PATIENT: What happened this morning?

THERAPIST: Oh, nothing major. Just spilled an entire cup of coffee on my laptop, lost a week’s worth of therapy notes, and then got a parking ticket because I was too distracted trying to figure out if my cat actually likes me or if he’s just pretending. No big deal. Just… life, you know?

PATIENT: Are you… okay?

THERAPIST: Oh, I’m great. Fantastic, actually. Never better. So let’s get back to you. You’re overwhelmed. You’re struggling with self-worth. And you feel like… like… Sorry, I just had a thought – do you ever wonder if everyone is secretly judging you all the time? Like, you’re at the corner shop, and the cashier is definitely thinking about how weird you look in joggers. Not that I’m projecting or anything.

PATIENT: That sounds like you’re projecting.

THERAPIST: (slightly unhinged) Maybe I am! Who isn’t these days? But let’s keep the focus on you. It’s not about me. It’s about you. You and your perfectly reasonable feelings of inadequacy.

PATIENT: I… don’t know if I want to talk about myself anymore.

THERAPIST: (leaning in, whispering) Do you think my cat is avoiding me?

PATIENT: I’m not sure?

THERAPIST: (nodding) Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m getting the cold shoulder. He just… he just stares at me, you know? Like he knows something I don’t. Anyway! Back to your issues. (with a forced smile) Tell me more about these work problems. It sounds awful. What was it again?

PATIENT: I was saying I feel like I’m not good enough…

THERAPIST: Yes! Imposter syndrome! A classic. The fear that at any moment someone’s going to pull back the curtain and reveal that you have no idea what you’re doing. I mean, that’s never happened to me, obviously. But I hear it’s common. (panicking slightly) Okay, maybe it has happened to me. Like… every day. But that’s beside the point! So, the trick is to remind yourself that everyone’s just pretending, really. Fake it ‘til you make it. Or, in some cases, fake it even after you’ve made it and hope no one notices. (breaking down a little) Oh, God, am I?

The therapist glances down at their notepad, which has “buy milk” and “schedule therapy for me?” instead of notes about the session.

PATIENT: I really think you should talk to someone.

THERAPIST: I am! I’m talking to you! That counts, right?

PATIENT: I think you might need an actual therapist, though.

THERAPIST: Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right. But, uh, you can book your next session on your way out, okay?

PATIENT: Sure, but are you okay?

THERAPIST: (sighing) Honestly? No. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. (muttering) If I say it enough times, it’ll become true, right? Anyway, time’s up. Off you trot.

PATIENT: Um… thanks, I guess?

THERAPIST: (staring at the notepad) Yeah, yeah. No problem. Happy to help.

The patient leaves, slightly bewildered but not as overwhelmed as before.

THERAPIST: How do I feel about that?

Nods into the distance, practising for the next patient.

Social Media News

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

LONDON—In a stunning victory, social media platforms have officially declared war on the human attention span, defeating it in a record time of just 30 seconds. Experts suggest this rapid conquest may be permanent, leaving entire generations incapable of focusing on anything longer than a TikTok clip or a rage-filled tweet.

Dr Ivan Noodea, a leading expert in digital behaviour and short-form distractions, commented on the news: “The human attention span has been steadily decreasing since the dawn of Instagram filters, but this latest defeat marks a new low. We’ve found that most people now require a new hit of dopamine every 10 seconds or so, ideally in the form of a viral dance trend, a cat doing something cute, or an absolute stranger telling you why you should be angry about something.”

The offensive began with the notorious invention of the “infinite scroll”, a tactical move designed to lure the human brain into a vortex of endless content. By combining pictures of people’s lunches, conspiracy theories, and aggressive advertising for things no one needs, social media created an addictive blend of nonsense that no one can resist.

“I used to read novels,” said Gemma, a 32-year-old Instagram veteran from Manchester, who is currently scrolling through a feed of pumpkin spice latte memes. “Now I can’t even get through a recipe without losing interest and googling why I’m sad all the time.”

Indeed, the results are alarming. Studies indicate that the average user now spends 93% of their waking hours staring at their phone, even while supposedly doing other things like “working”, “spending time with family”, or “driving”. Entire industries are reeling from the impact, with print journalism, bookshops, and any form of content longer than 280 characters suffering immediate extinction.

“You don’t need sentences to communicate anymore,” explained Tim Fellowes, 24, who hasn’t spoken to anyone face-to-face since 2019. “It’s all about the right combination of emojis, memes, and slightly sarcastic captions. If someone posts something, and I don’t immediately respond with a laughing-crying face, I’ve failed as a friend.”

As human attention wanes, a new group of people has risen to fill the vacuum: social media influencers. These individuals, whose primary qualifications include the ability to stare vacantly into ring lights, have now assumed positions of great power. Once mocked for their trivial pursuits, influencers are now regarded as key decision-makers on everything from politics to where you should buy your skincare products.

“I don’t trust politicians,” said Paul, a 28-year-old whose last three purchases were all recommended by influencers with names like @ChillVibesOnly and @PerfectGlowUp. “I only trust people who can unbox things on camera while telling me it’s ‘soooo demure’.”

Indeed, politicians have struggled to keep up with the times. A leaked report suggests that MPs are now taking lessons in TikTok dancing to improve their public image, with early results described as “an unsettling blend of cringe and desperation”.

But not all hope is lost. Social media companies have come forward with their own suggestions for restoring balance, offering helpful advice like: “Maybe try our new feature?” or “Have you seen the latest filter?” With innovations like “enhanced ads” and “suggested content”, designed to further optimise user engagement, it’s clear the battle for human consciousness is far from over. Or perhaps it is, and we’ve all already forgotten to care.

Report: Man Takes Bold Step, Actually Turns Off Phone for 15 Minutes Before Nervous Sweats Begin

SHEFFIELD—In what scientists are calling an act of “unprecedented bravery”, 29-year-old Chris Hastings reportedly switched off his smartphone for a full 15 minutes on Tuesday afternoon before experiencing violent shakes, heart palpitations, and a strange sense that he was missing out on something very important happening on Instagram.

“I just wanted to focus for a bit,” Hastings confessed, with hands trembling as he hurriedly recharged his device after the terrifying ordeal. “I thought I could read a book, maybe reflect on life. But then it hit me—I didn’t know if anyone had liked the meme I posted earlier. What if they hadn’t? What if there was an X debate I wasn’t part of? It was all too much.”

Hastings, who regularly “scrolls for a living” and describes himself as a “digital native”, began the experiment at 2:15 PM, with the modest goal of seeing if he could survive without any notifications until 3:00 PM. He made it to approximately 2:30 PM before his body began to reject the unfamiliar silence.

“I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore,” Hastings recounted, still visibly rattled. “Without my phone to tell me what to think or feel, I just started… having thoughts. Like, actual thoughts. I remembered a dream I had in 2004. I briefly wondered whether I should water my plants. That’s when I knew I had to turn my phone back on, or I’d lose myself completely.”

Meanwhile, younger generations are displaying an even more advanced level of social media dependence.

“This is how we vibe,” said Kylie Binoche, a 19-year-old influencer who has 3 million followers despite having no discernible personality traits. “I don’t get why Boomers and Millennials keep talking about ‘having a conversation’. If I can’t send a 15-second video of me pretending to laugh while my face is turned into a puppy, what’s even the point?”

Kylie was later seen dramatically pausing mid-conversation to take 47 identical photos of her half-eaten sushi, before selecting the one with the best lighting for her Instagram story with the caption, “Vibing @Life”.

In a related development, Casebook, once a dominant force in social media, has now officially been declared a museum for the digital habits of “ancient internet cultures.” The platform, now used exclusively by individuals over 40 and mysterious bots selling weight-loss supplements, is expected to offer historical tours in the near future, complete with vintage 2012 memes and screenshots of heated political arguments that no one cared about then and no one remembers now.

Marv Zooverberg, who was recently found experimenting with new ways to look human, stated, “We’re embracing this new direction. Casebook is the perfect place for the elderly to experience nostalgia. We’re adding a new feature where you can send a poke to someone who hasn’t used the platform since 2009, just to confuse them.”

In the wake of social media’s rapid evolution, tech companies are already gearing up for the next big thing: direct infusion. The forthcoming innovation promises to bypass even the need for scrolling—injecting users with pure, unfiltered hits of anxiety whenever an algorithm deems it necessary. “Imagine never having to worry about when to get anxious about engagement or followers again,” explained a spokesperson for MindMelt Technologies. “Just pure, automated anxiety, available with one quick jab.”

Meanwhile, Chris Hastings, now safely back in the glow of his Instagram feed, nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll sign up. But first, I’ve got to check if anyone liked my avocado toast pic.”

Teleprompting

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

INT. CONFERENCE CENTRE – DAY

A POLITICIAN is standing behind a lectern in a conference centre, presenting a speech to an audience that includes journalists and live television cameras.

POLITICIAN: My fellow citizens, today marks an important day for our nation. Together, we will… uh… (pauses, confused) …bring back… the squirrels?

He glances nervously at the teleprompter, squinting.

POLITICIAN: Uh… sorry, I meant… skills… bring back the skills our economy needs! (laughs awkwardly) Yes, that’s what I was trying to say.

The teleprompter suddenly jumps ahead, skipping lines.

POLITICIAN: And, I promise… uh… that we will… throw a surprise birthday party… for every citizen by 2030?

AUDIENCE MEMBER: (murmuring in the front row) Did he just promise us all a birthday party?

POLITICIAN: (panicking) No, no! What I meant to say was… we will throw our weight behind… job creation! Yes, job creation!

The teleprompter flickers and changes text again.

POLITICIAN: Our plan will bring back industry to the… uh… (squints) …the North Pole?

The politician frantically waves at someone off-stage to fix the teleprompter, but nothing happens.

POLITICIAN: No, no, not the North Pole! The North! Yes, jobs in the north of England. That’s what I meant. Obviously. And I assure you, under my leadership, we will all… do the Macarena and eat lasagne on… rollercoasters?

A few people in the crowd start laughing.

POLITICIAN: Right. Clearly, something’s… gone wrong here. (frantically taps the microphone, pretending it’s the problem) Uh… Let’s move on to more serious issues. I want to talk about our nation’s health service. We must invest in… wait, this can’t be right… fluffy kittens?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: (shouting from the back of the room) More kittens for the NHS!

POLITICIAN: (flustered, trying to regain composure) No! What I meant to say is… er, not more kittens! (mutters under his breath) Who’s writing this stuff?

The teleprompter completely malfunctions, scrolling at an impossible speed, flashing random words.

POLITICIAN: (desperately trying to keep up) And together, we will… fry fish… for world peace… by… planting trees on… the moon? Right! You know what? Forget the teleprompter. I’m just going to speak from the heart! (pauses dramatically) My friends, together we will… uh… erm…

An awkward silence as a tumbleweed blows across the stage.

Bumbleton

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

In the small town of Bumbleton, people were known for their hospitality, their fondness for tea, and their uncanny ability to completely misunderstand everything anyone ever said.

One sunny morning, the town was buzzing because Mayor Higglebottom had called a special meeting in the village hall to discuss a “very important matter”. Naturally, this caused a ripple of confusion across Bumbleton, where “important matters” were typically treated with the same urgency as deciding what type of biscuits to serve with tea.

At 10 a.m. sharp, the townspeople gathered in the hall, and Mayor Higglebottom stepped up to the podium, looking particularly serious. He cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve called you all here today because there’s been a significant increase in fox sightings near the village.”

Mr Puddlesworth, the town’s most forgetful baker, stood up immediately, eyes wide. “What? Socks fighting? How are the socks fighting? And why wasn’t I told about this sooner?”

The mayor blinked. “No, no, not socks, Mr Puddlesworth. Foxes. The animals, you see.”

Mrs Fiddlebatch, who ran the town’s knitting club, jumped up next. “Why are we discussing clocks at this hour? It’s a disgrace to keep clocks fighting at this time of day. My grandmother always said, clocks should only be allowed to fight at midnight, when it’s respectable.”

The mayor, looking flustered, tried again. “Not clocks, Mrs Fiddlebatch. Foxes! Wild foxes in the woods.”

But by now the room was in full chaos. Mr Puddlesworth had taken it upon himself to lecture the crowd on the dangers of sock fights, which apparently were “the leading cause of holes in footwear,” while Mrs Fiddlebatch was furiously scribbling down notes for her next knitting club meeting, where she planned to launch an anti-clock-brawling campaign.

Meanwhile, Tom Widdlestitch, the town’s resident conspiracy theorist, stood up at the back of the hall, waving a hand dramatically. “Ah, I see what’s going on here!” he shouted. “The mayor’s trying to distract us from the real issue! It’s the pigeons, isn’t it? They’ve been spying on us for weeks! I’ve seen them, with their beady little eyes, watching us from the rooftops, probably working for the secret government.”

The mayor’s face was turning a deep shade of crimson. “No, Tom, this has nothing to do with pigeons or—”

“Ah-ha! You see? That’s exactly what someone working for the pigeons would say!” Tom declared, crossing his arms triumphantly. “You can’t fool me, Higglebottom.”

The mayor was about to respond when Mrs Trumpet, the town’s most notorious gossip, stood up and gasped dramatically. “Did you say pigeons are wearing hats? I knew it! I saw a pigeon last week and thought, ‘That bird looks far too fashionable for Bumbleton.’ I even told Gertrude next door. ‘That pigeon is probably from London,’ I said. Now it all makes sense.”

Mayor Higglebottom, visibly shaken, took a deep breath. “No, Mrs Trumpet, I did not say pigeons are wearing hats. No one is wearing hats!”

Mrs Trumpet, still not listening to a word anyone was saying, turned to Mrs Fiddlebatch. “Did you hear that, dear? The pigeons have hats. No wonder they’ve been acting so suspicious. Probably trying to blend in with the local gentry. Pigeons have no business in fashion, if you ask me.”

Mayor Higglebottom slumped in defeat, realising there was no point trying to explain anymore. Bumbleton would remain a place where socks, clocks, pigeons in hats, and the occasional dancing badger somehow became the centre of every conversation, no matter the original topic.

With a deep sigh, he stepped down from the podium and muttered to himself, “Maybe Tom was right… perhaps the pigeons are behind all this.”

Harold’s Successful Day

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

It all started one sunny Saturday morning when Harold decided to visit the farmers’ market. He liked the market because it gave him a chance to chat with the locals—or at least try to. As he wandered past the stalls, a vendor called out to him.

“Would you like to try some fresh apples, sir?” she asked, holding up a basket of shiny red fruit.

Harold blinked, squinting in confusion. “What’s that? Fresh what? Freckles?”

The vendor looked puzzled. “No, apples. Fresh apples!”

Harold nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard good things about wrestling tackles. But I’ll pass today, thank you.”

He strolled off, leaving the vendor shaking her head, wondering what in the world “wrestling tackles” had to do with apples.

Next, Harold spotted his neighbour, Margaret, across the market. She waved cheerfully. “Morning, Harold! How’s the garden coming along?”

Harold cupped a hand to his ear. “Pardon? You want to know if I’m wearing a thong?”

Margaret’s smile faltered. “What? No! I asked about your garden!”

Harold grinned, giving her a thumbs-up. “Oh, don’t you worry, Margaret. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Strictly boxers for me!”

Margaret quickly made an excuse to leave, muttering something about needing more carrots.

Undeterred, Harold continued his way through the market. He approached a stall selling handmade candles, eager to buy something for his wife, Mabel. The vendor smiled and said, “These are lavender-scented. Great for relaxing.”

Harold tilted his head. “I see. They’re for axing?”

The vendor blinked. “No, relaxing. You know, to help you unwind.”

Harold’s eyes widened. “Oh, heavens! No, I don’t need candles for hacking things up. Mabel’s already hidden the hatchet after that hedge-trimming incident!”

The vendor wisely decided not to ask any follow-up questions and simply nodded as Harold wandered off.

The day continued in much the same fashion. At the cheese stall, he told the cheesemonger he was “definitely not into teething,” when offered some brie to taste. And at the flower stall, he kindly declined an offer for “roses for your wife” because he was “definitely not interested in rubbing toes with my wife.”

Harold ambled further down the market and stopped at a stand selling fresh bread. The baker greeted him warmly. “Good morning! Fancy a loaf? This one’s a lovely sourdough.”

Harold squinted at the loaf and frowned. “Did you just ask if I’d like to marry a toad?”

The baker stared at him in disbelief. “Uh, no, sir. I said sourdough.”

Harold threw his hands up. “Well, I’m flattered, but I’m already married, and to a lovely woman at that! No need for amphibious proposals, thank you!” He gave the baker a knowing wink and hurried off.

Further along, Harold stopped at a table piled high with jams and preserves. The vendor smiled brightly and held up a jar. “How about some strawberry jam? Just made fresh this morning!”

Harold tilted his head. “Strawberry ham? No, no, I’m off pork for a while. Doctor’s orders.”

“Jam!” she corrected, a little more forcefully. “Strawberry jam!”

Harold scratched his head. “No need to get aggressive about it. If I wanted ham, I’d just go to the butcher. But thank you for the offer.”

Harold stopped by the seafood stand, where a young fishmonger was busy arranging freshly caught mackerel. “Morning, sir! Care for some haddock today?”

Harold frowned. “You want me to add up today? What, like maths? I didn’t come here to do sums, young man. I came here for a relaxing stroll!”

“No, haddock. You know, the fish.”

Harold nodded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, bad luck. Well, that’s just life, isn’t it? Can’t do much about that.” He gave the fishmonger a consoling pat on the arm and wandered off.

Eventually, Harold reached the coffee cart.

“Hi there! Can I get you a latte?” the barista asked, trying to enunciate as clearly as possible.

Harold leaned in. “What’s that? You want me to get a cat today?”

“No, latte. You know, coffee?”

Harold’s face brightened. “Ah, you want to talk about fate today! Well, I do like a good philosophical discussion.” He glanced around conspiratorially before leaning in closer. “I’ll tell you, I don’t think much of it. Fate, I mean. Far too overrated. Everything’s a coincidence if you ask me!”

The barista, now completely bewildered, simply nodded, handing him a cup of black coffee without further explanation. Harold tipped his hat, took a sip, and gave her a satisfied smile. “Ah, fate indeed.”

As the sun began to dip behind the clouds and the market wound down, Harold made his way home, thoroughly pleased with his outing. He had declined several strange offers—wrestling tackles, amphibian matrimony, axing candles—and managed to avoid an existential discussion about bad luck fish.

When he arrived home, Mabel was waiting in the kitchen, her eyebrow raised as she saw the strange assortment of items Harold had brought back from the market: a single parsnip, a jar of mustard (which Harold had mistaken for jam), and what appeared to be an umbrella he’d somehow picked up along the way.

“How was the market, dear?” she asked, knowing full well what to expect.

Harold beamed. “Oh, the usual. I refused to marry a toad, turned down some wrestling equipment, and had a rather enlightening chat about fate with a coffee seller. All in all, a successful day.”

Story Time

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

INT. DOCTOR’S SURGERY – DAY

DOCTOR: Alright, Mr Higgins. Let’s start with something simple. How are you feeling today?

PATIENT: Oh, well, the giraffe seemed pretty unimpressed with the roller skates, if I’m being honest.

DOCTOR: (pausing, confused) …Sorry, did you say giraffe?

PATIENT: Yeah, they’re tall, aren’t they? Always with their heads in the clouds, wondering why sandwiches never come with enough mustard.

DOCTOR: (blinking) Right… Okay, let’s try something else. Do you have any allergies?

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. I’m allergic to tap dancing on Thursdays. Every time I try, my feet turn into raisins. It’s a nightmare.

DOCTOR: I see. No actual food allergies though? No medications you’re allergic to?

PATIENT: Only when the moon’s full. If I take aspirin under a full moon, I turn into a coat rack. But that’s fairly common, right?

DOCTOR: (sighing) Not exactly common, no… Let’s move on. Do you smoke?

PATIENT: Only when I’m impersonating a chimney sweep. But just for show, you know? Got to keep up appearances at the soot convention.

DOCTOR: (losing composure for a second) The soot convention?

PATIENT: Oh yes, big event. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a competitive soot sweep-off. Those guys take it seriously. Last year, someone brought a vacuum, and things got ugly.

DOCTOR: (looking baffled) Alright, let’s… let’s check your blood pressure.

PATIENT: Ah, blood pressure. That reminds me of the time I tried to sell lemonade to a lobster. He just pinched the cup right out of my hand! Can you believe it?

DOCTOR: I… I can’t say that I can, no.

The doctor wraps the blood pressure cuff around the patient’s arm and begins pumping it, trying to focus on the task. The patient continues.

PATIENT: So, what do you think about the international ban on using trampolines as dinner tables? Personally, I think it’s long overdue. You spill one bowl of soup, and suddenly you’re a public menace.

DOCTOR: (barely paying attention, focused on the cuff) Mm-hmm. Please stay still.

PATIENT: You ever notice that raccoons never hold press conferences? Suspicious, right?

DOCTOR: (pausing mid-pump, staring at him) I… don’t really follow raccoon news.

PATIENT: That’s exactly what they want! Always rummaging through bins, but where’s the transparency? What are they hiding?

DOCTOR: (trying to maintain composure) Okay, I think we’re done here. Your blood pressure seems… well, normal, somehow.

PATIENT: That’s good to hear. It usually spikes when I start thinking about the proper etiquette for high-fiving a porcupine.

DOCTOR: Let’s move on to something simpler. Do you exercise regularly?

PATIENT: Oh, every day. I run a marathon with my pet goldfish, Frederick. He’s great, very motivational. He does most of the swimming, though.

DOCTOR: (blankly) I imagine so. And, uh, how far do you run with Frederick?

PATIENT: We usually stop when the ostrich starts leading the conga line. You can’t ignore an ostrich doing the conga – it’s basically the law.

DOCTOR: (almost impressed at this point) Fascinating. I had no idea conga-dancing ostriches were so authoritative.

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. They’re in charge of all dance-related legislation. That’s why you never see them salsa dancing. They’re above it. Strictly conga.

DOCTOR: …Right. Well, we’re almost done here. Any family history of heart disease?

PATIENT: Well, my great-aunt Ethel once fell in love with a stop sign. Does that count?

DOCTOR: I don’t think so, no.

PATIENT: It was unrequited, though. The stop sign was already in a relationship with an exit sign. Tragic, really.

DOCTOR: Okay, Mr Higgins, I think we’re done for today. I’ll… recommend you for further evaluation.

PATIENT: Great! Just make sure it’s not on a Wednesday. That’s when I herd sheep across the Atlantic. They’re very punctual.

DOCTOR: (nods, standing up and gesturing toward the door) Of course. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the schedule. Good luck with the sheep.

PATIENT: Thanks, Doctor! Oh, and one last thing – do you know where I can get a license to operate a hot air balloon made entirely of mashed potatoes?

DOCTOR: (baffled) …No, but I’ll look into it.

PATIENT: Much appreciated! Have a good one! Remember, if you ever meet a walrus with a monocle, don’t trust him – he has a wonderful way with words, but next thing you know, you’re swimming around in circles like a north sea mackerel!

DOCTOR: (staring after him as he leaves, bewildered) Noted.

Letters to the Sea

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Elias had spent his whole life by the sea, a fisherman in his youth, and now in his twilight years, he lived quietly, collecting shells and repairing old nets out of habit, though he no longer had need for them. Every morning, he would walk down to the shore just as the sun began to rise. He’d sit on a large, smooth rock, watching the sea wake up, listening to the gulls as they wove through the currents of air rising above the water.

He would sit there on the beach with a small notepad, his hands weathered and slow, but steady. He would write a few words, sometimes many, sometimes just a line or two. Then, when the letter was done, he’d tuck it into a glass bottle, cork it carefully, and walk to the water’s edge. There, he would kneel, and with tenderness, release the bottle into the waves. The sea would claim it, carry it away, and Elias would watch as the fragile vessel faded, blurring into the blue expanse.

No one knew what the letters said. Elias never spoke of them, and no one ever asked. He was known as a gentle man, though a man of few words. It was simply assumed the letters were his way of keeping his mind busy, a quaint tradition to pass the time in his later years.

One summer, a girl named Anya arrived in the village with her parents, trying to find a place that felt like home. She noticed Elias immediately, sitting by the shore each morning. One day, when she gathered the courage, she approached him.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice soft in the breeze. “May I ask what you write in those letters?”

Elias looked at her, his eyes as blue as the water behind him, a lifetime of stories hidden in their depths, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might not answer. But then, after the silence, he responded, “They’re letters to the sea.”

Anya was intrigued. “Do you ever get a reply?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

Elias looked back out at the horizon, where the sea and sky stretched endlessly away. “I’ve written to the sea since I was a young man. I started when I lost someone I loved deeply. At first, the letters were full of anger and sorrow, things I couldn’t say to anyone else. But over time, the words changed. They became letters of gratitude, of wonder. Now, I write because the sea understands. It’s always there, always listening.”

Anya was quiet, watching the waves roll in. “That’s beautiful,” she said after a while.

Elias nodded, his gaze never leaving the water. “The sea is always moving, always changing, carrying things away but bringing new things to the shore. We don’t always understand its ways, but there’s a peace in being here and watching the waves.”

The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the gentle rush of the tide and the distant calls of the gulls. Then, Elias reached into his bag and pulled out a small, empty bottle. He handed it to Anya.

“Here,” he said. “Why don’t you try? Write something. It doesn’t have to be much. Just whatever you feel right now.”

Anya hesitated at first, then took the bottle. She picked up a small pebble from the beach, turning it in her hand as she thought. Then, with a shy smile, she sat back down and began to write.

From that day on, Anya and Elias met every morning by the sea, each with their own bottle to send out into the waves. Anya found that, as the days passed, the weight of her thoughts grew lighter. The letters were never meant for anyone in particular, and yet they seemed to find their place in the world, carried away on the tide.

Years later, after Elias had passed on, people would sometimes find bottles washed up on the shore—letters from long ago, carrying something special: the quiet love of a man who had made peace with the sea.